


Almost Lost Everything

by afteriwake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3502757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a month since Moriarty made his final play, a month since Molly got shot and a month since Sherlock locked himself away from the world to live in a drunken stupor to escape his guilt. But Mary's had enough of it and she sets out to get him presentable and help him salvage his relationship with the woman he loves most in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Lost Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 6 of Sherlolly Appreciation Week, which was a Sherlolly fic with emphasis on Sherlock. It's a bit more angsty than the other stuff I've written, but this one kind of came forth in a rush and I just had to write it.

“You need to wake up, Sherlock, and be a functional member of society again. Staying in the flat drinking all day in your pyjamas is just not going to do.” Mary walked over to the curtains and opened them, and Sherlock shielded his eyes from the bright glare of the sun by pulling the pillow out from under his head and putting it on top of his face. It was only there a few moments when Mary snatched it from his grasp. He glared up at her. “It's been a month. I think you need to get over it all and move forward.”

“I don't need to get over it and move on,” he snapped, reaching up and grabbing the pillow back from her. He shoved it on his face again. “I need all of you to leave me alone.” This time his voice was muffled but he was fairly sure she'd heard him anyway.

He could hear her sigh. “Fine. Don't listen to me or John. I'll just bring in someone else who you _will_ listen to.”

He scoffed. “Like who? I never want anything to do with my family, Lestrade hasn't spoken to me since it happened--”

“Because you wouldn't return his calls and you pretended your doorbell was broken,” Mary countered.

“And Mrs. Hudson has deemed me a lost cause,” he continued the minute she stopped. “So who else is left?”

“Molly,” she said.

He lifted the pillow up off of his face slowly, staring at Mary with wide eyes. “She's the last person who wants to speak to me,” he said quietly.

“She's worried about you,” Mary said, moving towards the sofa. She picked Sherlock's legs up off of it and maneuvered her way under them before sitting down and placing them on her lap. “She knows you feel as though it's your fault but she also thinks you blame her for some reason.”

“It _is_ my fault,” he said, removing his legs from her lap and sitting up. “The whole thing is my fault. I know it and all of you know it. She should know none of it is her fault. Why doesn't she see that?”

“Because you haven't told her otherwise,” Mary said gently. “And by the way, it isn't your fault. It's the fault of that psychopath that she got hurt. So you have just as much reason to stop feeling guilty as she does.”

“But if I had made it to the warehouse a few minutes earlier he wouldn't have shot her,” he pointed out.

“That's bollocks. He was going to do it regardless. He wanted to hurt her for thwarting his plan all those years ago, and he wanted to hurt you by doing it in front of you. Even if you had arrived at the warehouse exactly when he told you to be there he would have shot her. If he hadn't wanted to hurt you he'd have done it when you weren't there at the appointed time and then just left and kept on playing his game while you mourned her death, but he waited until you were there.”

“Well, if I had figured it all out earlier I could have got there before the appointed time,” he said. “I could have kept her from being shot at all.”

“No, you could have been there any amount of time earlier and he still would have shot her,” Mary said. “It was all part of the sick, twisted game he'd played with you for years, ever since you were young. But you keep forgetting the important part.”

“And just what would that be?” he asked.

“She's alive. He shot her and left her for dead but you got help to her in time because you anticipated he'd do something horrible. You saved her. You feel guilty that she got shot but she's alive and she's perfectly fine now, other than thinking you blame her for the entire situation. So do her a favor and tell her it's not her fault.”

“I don't know if I can face her,” he said, looking down.

“Well, I certainly think you shouldn't at this very moment, not when you're looking like this,” she said. “I mean, when is the last time you shaved? Or combed your hair? Or took a shower?”

He thought about it for a few minutes, which was hard with his alcohol fuddled brain. “A month ago, a little less than a month ago, and a week ago.”

“I'm surprised you took a shower that recently, considering you certainly do smell ripe,” she said. “Go take a shower, deal with that bird's nest on top of your head and shave. While you do that I'll make something to get rid of the hangover I know you have to have right now and I'll make you something proper to eat.” She reached over and pushed on his back, urging him to get up. “Go, all right? And take two aspirin before you turn on the water for the shower.”

He nodded slowly, getting up off the sofa and heading to the loo. He should have known eventually someone would force him to actually start going back to how he had been. He'd rather hoped they'd just allow him to stew in his misery and guilt, however. He hadn't been surprised that it was Mary who did it, or that she knew exactly how to get through to him. The woman had an unwholesome ability to read him like an open book and push just the right buttons to get him to do what she wanted. For some reason he didn't mind when she manipulated him most of the time because usually it was in his own best interest. But he'd thought even she saw him as a lost cause.

He made it to the loo and looked at himself in the mirror. He'd avoided doing that since the minute he got home after the incident at the warehouse and he actually looked a fright, he realized. He'd really let himself go. The beard was just as unkempt as the one he'd had in Russia, though not as long, and his hair looked much the same way. He didn't have the luxury of having a barber on hand so he'd have to make the best of it himself. He was quite thankful he shaved with a straight razor and not one of those disposable ones because it probably would have broken before he was a quarter of the way getting the mass of hair off his face. He went into his medicine cabinet to get his shaving cream and then began to get to work.

The mass on top of his head was another matter, and he nearly broke his comb in half trying to get it through. As it stood some of the teeth snapped off and when he got his hair into something more manageable he tossed it in the rubbish bin. This time when he looked in the mirror he looked more normal, except in the eyes and general appearance. His eyes were bloodshot and it was fairly obvious his diet had consisted mostly of alcohol for quite a while. He had made it a point to eat because he wasn't a total idiot, but mostly just enough to sop up the copious amounts of alcohol he was drinking and keep him from being sick. He also looked quite haggard, as if he had aged a decade in the span of thirty days. With a sigh he pulled himself away from the mirror and moved towards the shower.

It wasn't until he was under the spray that he shut his eyes and it all came flooding back: the sight of seeing Molly strung up from the rafter by her wrists, the sound of two gunshots and Moriarty's laughter, the sight of red stains on the white shirt of his that Molly had been wearing, the sound of the third, fourth and fifth gunshots and Moriarty's gurgling breaths and the terror that had run through him from the minute he found out she was taken until the ambulance arrived. He braced his hands on the tile in front of him as the very things he'd been trying so hard to forget all flooded back. He'd drunk himself into a stupor so he didn't have to relive what what arguably the worst day of his life over and over again every time he shut his eyes. It had all been his fault and it was easier to forget it than deal with the massive amount of guilt he felt.

Slowly he pulled himself together and cleaned himself up, trying his best to make himself presentable even though he'd much rather continue to hide away from the world and hope the world forgot about him. He went to his bedroom when he was done and looked at his clothing choices. He didn't want to put on a suit. His suits made him feel powerful and confident, and they acted as a sort of armor that he didn't want to encase himself in right now. He had the feeling if he went out in another pair of pyjamas Mary would march him right back in here and dress him in something else herself. He settled on a T-shirt and a pair of denim trousers he'd bought to sate Molly's curiosity as to what he would look like in more casual clothing. It would do well enough for now.

He made his way back out towards the sitting room and saw there was a glass of red liquid with a celery stalk sitting in it on the table next to the kitchen. He knew for a fact he had no tomato juice in the flat so Mary must have come prepared. She was at the stove cooking something for him, and she nodded towards the chair in front of the glass when she saw him. “Did you take the aspirin?” she asked. He shook his head and she pointed back to the loo. “Two of them, Sherlock.”

He turned around and went back, getting to the pill bottle. He opened it and tapped out two pills, dry swallowing them, then closed the bottle and put it back. He went back out to the table and sat down, taking a sip of the Bloody Mary. He kept sipping it until Mary came over with a plate. He looked down at the food. “I thought you were supposed to eat greasy food when hung over.”

“Carbs are better, and pancakes and toast are good sources of carbs,” she said before going back into the kitchen. She came back with a second plate of pancakes and two knives and forks, handing him one of each utensil. “Eat, Sherlock.”

He nodded, using the utensils to cut some of the pancakes. He ate them slowly, alternating with sips of the Bloody Mary. He finished and Mary came over with two more pancakes when he looked back at the kitchen. He ate those as well and when he was done he pushed his plate away. His head was pounding still and the room seemed far too bright but at least he wasn't going to vomit all over the place. He put his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together. “I'm surprised she wants anything to do with me,” he said finally.

“She loves you,” Mary said. “That didn't change because you pushed her away, mostly because she thinks you have every right to. Which you really don't, by the way. You could push everyone else away and we would be fine with that but you should have been there for her. She deserved better.”

“Further proof I'm a horrible person to be in a relationship with,” he said. “I obviously didn't care enough.”

“No, I disagree. You've spent the last month being a selfish prat who was more concerned with his own feelings of guilt than being there for the person who needed him most,” she said. “But I still think you care about her far more than you don't. I understand all of this is new to you, actually loving someone else and being in love with them. And you didn't have long to realize it before Moriarty decided to try and snatch it all from you. So that's why I'm not writing you off completely like everyone else has, aside from Molly.”

“Even John has?” he asked curiously.

“He's very close to that point. I'm not entirely sure he hasn't crossed it yet. But he's about done with you. I thought I'd give myself at least one more chance to get through to you.” She looked at him intently. “She needs you, Sherlock. And you need her as well. The two of you are much stronger together than you are apart.”

He nodded slowly. “I know. I just don't know what to do or say.”

“Apologize, first off. Tell her the entire truth about how you feel and how sorry you are that you let her down. And listen to what she has to say. Don't discount how she feels, don't trivialize it. Own up to the fact that you weren't there for her and then start being there. Let her close again and keep her as close as she'll let you. That's what you need to do.”

“And then?” he asked.

“Take advantage of this second chance you were lucky enough to get.” Mary stood up and moved over to him. “She's been waiting in my car since I got here. I'm going to send her up now, all right?”

“All right,” he said, standing up.

Mary embraced him tightly. “You can work on mending your relationships with everyone else later. Just make things right with her first.”

He nodded as he embraced her back. They stood that way for a few minutes before Mary let go and turned to leave. Once he heard the door close behind her Sherlock moved towards the sitting room, feeling more nervous than he had the last time he'd been alone with Molly before she'd been kidnapped, the first time they'd been intimate. That had been nerves because he was inexperienced. This was nerves because he wasn't sure if he could fix this, if he could make it right. He heard the front door open and heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and then Molly was there, closer than she'd been in weeks. “Molly,” he said quietly.

“Sherlock,” she said, wringing her hands slightly. “I imagined you would look...worse.”

“Mary made me clean myself up,” he said. “Would you like tea?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, not sure what to do next. He hated feeling this way around her. “Do you want to sit down?”

She nodded, coming into the room more. She looked at the chairs and the sofa, and for a moment she thought she would take one of the chairs. But she sat on the sofa instead, sitting on the far side. He joined her a moment later, putting his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on his knuckles. “I don't know what I should do,” she said after a moment, and he turned to see she was looking down at her hands, which were in her lap. “I want to be angry and I want to yell because I spent all this time alone, but I also want to cry with relief because you didn't drink yourself to death or go back to using drugs, and I want to be ecstatic because now I know you really didn't blame me for everything. And part of me wants to kiss you while the other part of me wants to hit you until I feel better.”

“Maybe you should do all of it,” he said. “I certainly deserve it.”

“Yes, you do,” she said, turning to look at him. “I needed you, Sherlock. I needed to have you there, to borrow some of your strength even if you weren't strong all the time. I needed to know it was all going to be okay, that we would be fine, even if it took a really long time. I needed you there to hold me when I had a nightmare and soothe me back to sleep, to listen when I needed to get my feelings out. And you weren't there. You left me all alone. And not only that, I felt it was my fault you'd pulled away.”

“I know,” he said, shutting his eyes. “I'm a horrible person.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she said, and that hurt worse than he had expected. That was like a solid punch to the gut. “But I know you can be a good person. I know you're capable of feeling love and warmth and compassion. I just think you didn't know how to handle what you were feeling so you did what you've done for so long. You shut yourself off and pushed everyone away, even when there was no need.”

He was quiet for a few minutes. “It was all my fault,” he said when he finally spoke. “If I hadn't asked for your help years ago, if I hadn't started a relationship with you six months ago there wouldn't have been a target on your back. I put that target on your back, Molly. He knew you were the most important person in the world to me, and killing you would devastate me. He waited until I had let my guard down to take you. And I couldn't do anything to stop it. I couldn't keep you safe. He got to you and he hurt you and I was powerless to do anything other than cut you down and try and stop the bleeding. And then I left you alone and let you think it was all your fault. It's not. It's mine, and I'll have to live with that for the rest of my life.”

She was quiet for a moment, then stood up. She moved over to sit next to him, so close their thighs were touching. She set a hand on his thigh, pressing her shoulder into him. “I am a grown woman, Sherlock. I am perfectly capable of weighing out potential consequences for my actions. I knew helping you that day at the hospital could put me in danger. And I knew that would be the case if I started a relationship with you. But I made the decision to do both of those things because you're important to me. I care about you.”

“I care about you too,” he said.

“Do you still love me, Sherlock?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Good. Because I still love you, too.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Let me close again. Let me know what's going on in that brain of yours. Tell me what you're feeling. Let me help lessen that guilt I know you're always going to feel. And be there for me, too. Hold me when I ask you to. Soothe my fears and kiss me as often as you can and tell me everything is going to be okay. Let me be angry about this when I need to be, and promise me you won't do it again and then keep that promise every day. Make an effort to make me happy, and I'll do the same for you. That way he doesn't win in the end. All right?”

He nodded. “All right.” She shifted slightly and embraced him, and he held her close, burying his nose in her hair and letting himself enjoy the feel of her in his arms again. He knew deep down in his heart that things were really going to be okay now, that he hadn't lost the most important person in his life, and that Moriarty didn't win their vicious twisted game. He could start his life again, and he was thankful beyond measure that he wasn't going to do it alone.


End file.
